


Technically Missing

by tprillahfiction



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Couple, Description of Injuries, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Graphic injuries, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Long Term Relationship, M/M, Maiming, Memory Loss, Mental Breakdown, Mental Illness, POV First Person, Recovery, Stockholm Syndrome, Trauma, Violence, Vulcan Language, bottle show, description of physical trauma, mental trauma, mention of rape, physical injuries, spock's pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:29:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7393120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tprillahfiction/pseuds/tprillahfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. McCoy is kidnapped by a mysterious alien.  They return him physically maimed and injured, suffering from amnesia and mental illness. Spock tries to nurse him back to health while Kirk attempts to locate the culprits.</p><p>Originally appeared in Spiced Peaches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Horror. Mention of rape. Description of horrific injuries. Mental trauma. kidnapping. hurt/comfort. Stockholm Syndrome. Violence. Mention of violence.

TECHNICALLY, MISSING

 

At the science library station, I am monitoring, performing routine scans. Standard procedure of course.

The Enterprise is patrolling a quiet, previously uncharted quadrant of space at one quarter impulse power.

I cannot explain it. I feel a sense of foreboding in this sector. Since it is merely an irrational feeling I am experiencing at this moment, I disregard it. However, it continues to creep up on me, like an Earth spider walking on the back of my neck.

I hear Dr. McCoy’s voice behind me. The man is next to the captain’s chair, haunting the bridge, as always, engaged in yet another mundane conversation with Jim. To satisfy my curiosity, I half listen to their interchange as I perform my duties.

My vision suddenly blurs. The phenonomon is not unusual. Sometimes the scanner will affect my eyesight in such a way. I have been in the blue illumination for several hours. I pull back from the scanner, blinking, readjusting my vision. McCoy does not notice my difficultly of which I am grateful. The man is still chatting with the captain as I resume monitoring.

“Coffee, Dr. McCoy?” Yeoman Rand asks.

“Oh, I’d love some, Janice. Thanks,” McCoy replies.

I turn around to regard the captain and McCoy for a moment, both of them now clutching coffee cups, the steam rising out.

McCoy is currently clad in his blue dupioni silk, short sleeved sickbay smock. I remember once when the doctor had told me where dupioni silk came from. Earth silkworms. That smock is not made of synthetic silk. The nubs in the silk are cocoons. The silkworms, still in those cocoons are boiled alive to release that silk. The silkworms scream when they are boiled alive. Perhaps one of these days I can convince the doctor to utilize synthetic silk rather than such barbaric natural fabric.

McCoy notices my staring. He flashes me a reassuring smile. He looks back down at the captain, dropping back into conversation.

Suddenly, Mr. Sulu’s voice exclaims: “Captain! Look!” The helmsman points at the viewscreen.

“What is it, Mr. Sulu?” Kirk says.

“A ripple. Out there.”

I glance through my viewer again, before the captain says: “Spock?”

“Nothing there,” I report.

“Absolutely nothing?”

“Not at all.”

“So that was just a–-?”

“Mirage.”

“As you were, Mr. Sulu,” Kirk tells the helmsman.

“Sorry, Captain. My eyes. Must be going buggy. No planets anywhere to break up the monotony of deep space,” Sulu says.

“It’s alright, Mr. Sulu,” McCoy tells him. “Happening to me, too. Long stretches of space plays tricks on ya.”

“No planets in this sector of space,” Kirk repeats. “Is that still confirmed, Mr. Spock?”

“Affirmative.”

“Captain!” Sulu shouts out again. “Another ripple.”

Our primary helmsman, experienced with several years behind him in Starfleet, would not be imagining this. The man would know what he saw. However I cannot confirm– “Nothing,” I inform the captain.

“Mr. Chekov?” Kirk says.

“I concur with Mr. Spock,” Chekov says. “Ships scanners are not reporting any objects or ships within range.”

The ship shudders violently.

I grab ahold of the edge of my station so that I am not thrown from my seat. The entire bridge crew lurches forward. The crew who are standing, unstationed, including Rand and McCoy, stumble a few steps before recovering themselves.

“What was that?” Kirk asked.

I check my scanner again. “Absolutely nothing, Captain.”

“It can’t be nothing, Mr. Spock. Stop saying it’s nothing. Nothing doesn’t cause that. Something is there.”

“I am detecting nothing, Captain. No ion waste. No debris. My scanners are not bouncing off of any object.”

Kirk gets up from his chair, stands at my elbow, tension rolling off of the man in droves. “Has to be something there. Dammit.”

McCoy is on the other side of my science station now, still holding his cup of coffee.

I turn back to my viewer. Suddenly, Lieutenant Uhura lets out a horrific, bloodcurdling scream.

There is a noise–something. A light object, hitting the deck.

I turn at the sound just as Kirk yells out: “Bones!”

Dr. McCoy is gone.

His coffee cup has fallen.

As if in slow motion, the coffee cup is now rolling on the deck, making a grating sound as it does so, the dark liquid spilling out. Everywhere.

The now empty, ownerless cup makes its way down the upper deck. The cup drops to the lower level, keeps going and then hits against the helm console.

Mr. Chekov picks up the cup and stares at it in horror.

____________________

on to next chapter


	2. Chapter 2

“Where is he, Spock?” the captain demands.

All I can do at this moment, is check my scanner. “Dr. McCoy is not aboard the Enterprise. I do not detect his life signs anywhere.”

I hear a crunch and glance up. The captain has crumpled up his own coffee cup, the leftover coffee spilling out onto his hands. “You keep saying ‘nothing’ is there! That ‘nothing’ just took Dr. McCoy away!”

“I am well aware of that, Captain.”

“Red alert, Uhura, GQ 4.”

“General Quarters 4, Captain.”

*

There is nothing to fight. No enemy. No entity.

I maintain deep space long range sensor sweeps. There is still no sign of Dr. McCoy. No sign of any alien antagonist. No ship.

The doctor is not aboard the Enterprise, that much is certain. Everything else is uncertain.

Kirk appears next to me. He rubs his face. “Set course for the closet planet. Maximum warp.”

“That distance will take three months,” Mr Scott replies from the engineering monitoring station on the other side of the bridge. “Even at maximum.”

The captain nods. He knows.

*

One standard day later. Twenty four standard hours since McCoy's disappearance.

I do not know where he is, or if he is alive. It is-- were I human and could feel this emotion-- unnerving. Actually to be quite honest, I feel the emotion, quite strongly.

The uncertainty is a dark blanket that covers the senses. Dulls. The thoughts permeate every move.

At least if we find a tangible body, we can have closure. We can mourn his death, we can bury him. For now we can do nothing.

Neither myself or the captain sleep. I can handle the lack quite easily. I know the captain cannot. Neither one of us has eaten much, if at all. Neither one of us has showered, or even seen the inside of our respective quarters.

I try to get the captain to at least take a short rest period. I escort him to his cabin. There are severe dark circles underneath the man's glazed eyes. I can smell the captain's body odor.

"Jim," I plead. "You must look after yourself or you will collapse."

Jim laughs. It is a bitter, harsh sound. "What about you? You look like a ghoul. When's the last time you bothered to comb your hair?"

I walk in front of Jim's mirror and stare at my reflection. Jim is correct. I look unrecognizable. Haggard.

Odd.

"Torturing ourselves," Jim spits out, "Isn't going to find Bones."

"I agree," I tell him. "Why are we doing this?"

From there, our conversation disintegrates. The captain and I bicker. Jim says things he would never normally say. I know he is striking out in frustration. It reminds me of McCoy. Jim feels helpless. And so do I. I can suppress it much more easily. But is a gnawing, horrible feeling.

*

Two standard days later, the captain paces the bridge. Walking around and around and around. I watch him for three point two minutes from my station.

Then I join him. My arms clasped behind my back as I walk with him, around and around and around. 

"Theraputic, Mr. Spock," the captain explains his behavior in an attempt at a humorous tone. 

"Indeed?"

*

On day four, the captain hits the button on his chair: “Kirk to M’Benga.”

“M’Benga here, Captain.”

“Have a nurse bring up another stimulant.”

“Captain, I’m not going to authorize any more stimulants for you. You need sleep. Let your first officer take over for awhile.”

“No sleep,” Kirk demands. “Stimulant.”

“How long do you think you can keep going on those things before they tear you apart?”

“No sleep,” Kirk repeats. "Stimulant.”

I am about to admonish my commanding officer–- remind him that staying awake will not bring Leonard McCoy back, this action is foolhardy, he must stop putting his own health at risk, or he will put others at risk as well–- before I spot a blip on my scanner. “Captain.”

“Something there?”

“Dr. McCoy.” We do not have to wait three months. I note that the interval from disappearance to reappearance is only four standard days. Four excruciating days which in fact felt like three months in duration. But logically it is still only four days and not three months at all.

“McCoy? Where is he? Is he alive?”

I am about to respond when Mr. Scott’s voice cuts in from the intercomm: “Scott to bridge.”

“Hold on a minute, Scotty,” Kirk says. “Where is he, Mr. Spock?”

“He is on board.”

“Can you pinpoint--?”

“Captain!” Scott says. “You need to get down here. Transporter room A. Hurry.”

The captain and I run towards the lift.

*

In transporter room A we discover a humanoid figure kneeling down on the pads.

I cannot recognize the figure…

…at first.

The humanoid is completely bald, bloody, nude but for a sheet covering the tiny waist.

The arms are crossed in front of the torso. There are no hands. There are merely a pair of crudely sewn up stumps where the hands should be.

It is the eyes, those blue eyes that are the most haunting. Staring at nothing. Or something that is not there. The expression is dull and lifeless. The face is hollow, deeper creases etched into that sallow face. The body is thinner. Almost skeletal in appearance.

“Oh my God," the captain breathes out. "It's Bones.”

__________________

on to chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

We approach McCoy. Slowly moving up the steps to him. He does not see either of us.

“Bones?” the captain says again in a small voice, the panic rising up. “Bones? Spock, what’s happened to his hands? Bones? Bones!”

There’s an inscription in red on the sheet that is covering McCoy’s waist. I do not know for certain, but one can safely assume that the words are written in the doctor’s own blood.

Kirk leans in, reads out: “ _He is useless to us_.”  An animal-like whimper escapes the captain’s lips. A noise that I have never before heard. He turns to Mr. Scott. “Get M’Benga in here, now!”

I creep closer to touch McCoy. The man suddenly whips his head around, begins to scream. He does not know me. As he shrieks, blood drips from his mouth in two heavy streams. His front teeth are rotted out, or broken. His breath smells like death. His body smells like almonds...I remember that scent from when we happened upon a decaying body on Cel--

I turn my head in revulsion. McCoy smells like maggots.

McCoy’s voice is–- Something is off. It is garbled. Inhuman.

McCoy keeps screaming. The noise is piercing, growing louder and louder.

I place my hand at the junction of the neck and shoulder. McCoy crumples into my arms.

“Sickbay,” Kirk is saying at the same time Dr. M’Benga enters.

“Oh my God,” M’Benga says.

I gather up and then carry McCoy’s ultra-light, limp form out of transporter room A, through the corridor, down to sickbay, keeping his genital region covered with the sheet for modesty sake. It is an odd thing to be concerned about at a time like this, covering him up, yet I wish to protect the man from onlookers.

Blood drips from McCoy’s mangled wrist stumps. I can hear it: Drip, drip, drip, drip. That noise will seep into my dreams.

We enter the ward. Nurse Chapel pales when she sees McCoy. I lay him down on the diagnostic table. The telemetry monitor lights up as soon as the body is there.

M’Benga removes the sheet covering McCoy’s body, setting it aside. He blinks a moment at the inscription written on it, then glances up at the monitor. The doctor barks out several commands to Chapel and a drug: “Chorhexamine.” He turns and says to the captain and I: “He’s alive at least. Barely.”

“His body hair is completely gone,” Kirk notes, staring at McCoy’s nude, limp form. “Look. All of it. The hair on his head. Even his pubic region.”

“Missing body hair is the least of his problems,” M’Benga says. He points at the monitor. “Substantial blood loss. The onset of renal failure. Severe physical abuse and trauma. Along with his hands, his tongue is missing.”

“His tongue? Missing?”

“It has been torn out, or bitten off,” Dr. M’Benga says, his tone matter of fact. “Somebody did attempt some type of rudimentary medical care on him, however. Whether that was to save his life or simply prolong his suffering, I do not know. There are sutures closing the wound in his mouth and also at his wrists as you can see here. And…” M’Benga takes a breath. “McCoy’s real age is not lining up correctly with his numeric age.”

“What do you mean?”

“Captain, it appears that McCoy is now a year older.”

“A year? Are you certain? Has he prematurely aged due to the trauma?”

“No. I believe that he has been held captive for a year.”

“That can’t be. He was returned to us in four days!”

“I don’t know how or why, but he is definitely an entire year older, Captain.”

“Are there any other missing organs?”

“Nothing else is missing. Lucky for him.”

“Lucky?! His tongue and hands are gone!” Kirk says. “You call that lucky?”

“I can repair the physical damage.”

“Repair? You make him sound like he’s a piece of equipment.”

“Sorry, Captain,” M’Benga says. “My apologies, Mr. Spock.”

“I understand, Dr. M’Benga,” I reply. “Jim.” I incline my head, motioning for the captain to leave M’Benga be so that the man can begin treatment.

Jim and I walk to McCoy’s empty office.

“Jim...” I pause as I catch sight of the dried red blood covering my palms. McCoy’s blood. “We must endeavor to locate the culprits. Their unprovoked terrorist attack against us is a danger to the federation.”

“Fuck the federation,” Kirk breathes out. He rubs his face. “Sorry, no, I didn’t mean that. What am I saying? Dammit, you’re so calm in all of this. How can you be so calm? I don’t know how you can manage it.”

“Practice,” I reply.

“Spock.  Hey, I’m sorry,” Jim says.

“I know, Jim.  I know.”

“We need--” Kirk rubs his face again. “I agree, we need to find who did this. Now. Deal with them.” Kirk balls up his fists. “And then–-”

He is interrupted by another scream.

We run back into the ward.

As we enter, M’Benga is pressing a hypo against McCoy’s arm. The scream dissolves into a cry out before the man falls unconscious and silent again.

“Why does he keep screaming?” Kirk says.

I grab ahold of the captain’s arm. “Bridge.” Let M’Benga treat the man, we are in the way, my eyes tell him.

Kirk nods at me, then looks at the doctor. “Take care of him, Dr. M’Benga.” The captain and I exit sickbay.

* 

In the lift, the captain and I suggest possible culprits.

“Klingons?” Kirk wonders.

“In this sector? Not likely, Captain. In addition, the Klingons would have claimed responsibility, shortly after McCoy’s return.”

“Romulans?”

“This does not fit the usual criteria of a Romulan attack. And again, they would have claimed responsibility for such a deliberate act.”

“Orions?”

“Again, it does not sound likely.”

I name a few more possibilities.

“There’s at least five you’ve suggested who have the technology to cloak a vessel," the captain replies. "And who have proven themselves barbaric. But which one can manipulate time in this way? McCoy is an entire year older.”

“It could be an enemy that we never before encountered.”

“Let’s completely rule out the ones we do know of. First.”

“Acknowledged.”

*

On the bridge, I maintain monitoring and scanning as the captain presses the intercomn button on his chair. “Kirk to sickbay.”

“Sanchez here, Captain.”

“Where’s Dr. M’Benga?”

“He’s still in surgery, Sir.”

“Alright. Just…trying to get an update on McCoy.”

“Dr. M’Benga will inform you when he finishes. Sanchez out.”

*

Kirk yawns uncontrollably. I believe that I can spot a solitary tear falling down his cheek. Perhaps I am mistaken. Kirk yawns again and blinks.

“Captain, you have gone far beyond your physical limitation,” I inform him. “I am ruling you currently unfit for duty.”

Kirk swears under his breath. “Aw, come on.”

“Captain. Go to bed. I will ‘mind the store’ as you call it, while you take your rest.”

“Dammit.”

“Go.”

“I’m going, Mr. Spock. See you in a couple hours.”

“Captain, I had better not see you for at least seven.”

Kirk scoffs at that. “I don’t require seven hours of sleep, Mr. Spock.”

“Captain,” I warn.

“Alright. I’m going.”

*

McCoy is now in the recovery ward.

He is still unconscious on the biobed. He is clothed in the white medical gown, something of which always unnerves me: The doctor, becoming the patient. He is covered up to the waist by the orange sensor blanket. He is strapped to the bed with restraints.

“The attachment surgery was successful,” M’Benga says. “McCoy now has hands and a tongue.”

I look down at McCoy’s new appendages, the join now covered by a thin white bandage. The color of the new hands do not quite match the man’s wrists and arms.

“Are they real?” Kirk asks.

“The tongue is real tissue, I grew it myself,” M’Benga says. “However, the hands are robotic. Amazing technology. McCoy might not, at this point, have feeling in those hands. I don’t know when he will regain full use of them. He will have to adapt to the implants in his brain. And he will speak with a severe impediment at first.”

“But he will... speak again,” Kirk says, his eyes flicking up at M'Benga.

“I do not see why not.”

“Will McCoy be able to practice medicine again?” I blurt out, and it sounds rather cold, my query, I know this, but it is imperative that McCoy can return to his duties as Chief Medical Officer as quickly as possible. The captain turns to look at me, then at M’Benga. The captain wants to know as well as I do. “Will he be able to resume his duties at some point?”

“Well. I don’t know, not yet, Mr. Spock,” M’Benga says. “There is… something.”

“What is it?” Kirk asks.

“I performed a passive psychological exam on him. Along with suffering from severe emotional trauma, he shows signs of amnesia, but I wasn’t able to determine the cause, the extent of it yet, or how much of it is temporary or not. Based on the condition we found his body in, that is quite understandable. Along with the uh…amputations, he was severely beaten, starved, bullwhipped.”

I close my eyes a moment.

M’Benga continues: “However, he is no longer in any danger of death at this point. He simply needs time to recover.”

“The inscription on that sheet: ‘He is useless to us’?” Kirk says. “They were interrogating him? They got nothing out of him?”

“I tested the bed sheet they’d wrapped him in,” M’Benga says.

“And? Any clues?”

“Only McCoy’s DNA is present. Nothing else. I did some forensic testing on McCoy’s body as well. I found no evidence. No fibers, no skin cells or fluids that can determine the identity of his attackers.”

“Can you wake him up?” Kirk says. “I want to talk to him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, Captain.”

“Why not?”

M’Benga sighs. “I have not been able to successfully keep him conscious.”

“What do you mean?”

“He becomes violent and frightened as soon as he is roused.”

“But he’s home. He’s safe now.”

“Yes. You know that. I know that. But McCoy does not.”

Kirk motions. “Wake him up.”

M’Benga hesitates a moment, then walks over to the bed, picks up a hypo, presses it against McCoy’s arm.

McCoy opens his eyes. Still unseeing. Or seeing something or somebody that is not there.

I hang back out of respect, or my own trepidation perhaps, but the captain is too close now to McCoy. He is much too much in the patient’s personal space.

“Jim,” I attempt to warn the captain back but he is not listening.

Kirk smiles so unnaturally wide, his teeth are showing. “Hey, Bones. It’s me. It’s Jim. You’re home. You’re on the Enterprise. You’re safe now. Bones. It’s Jim and Spock.”

McCoy turns his head. Looks at Jim. Sees him for the first time. He screams.

“Bones!” Kirk yells. “Bones! It’s alright! It’s me, Jim!”

As McCoy keeps shrieking, his tongue sticks out. It is the unnatural pink color of a newly regenerated organ. I also notice that Dr. M’Benga has repaired McCoy’s teeth.

Kirk reaches out, tries to touch him.

“Captain, don’t–-” M’Benga puts a hand on Kirk’s shoulder. “Don’t touch him.”

Kirk motions at McCoy. “Put him back under.”

The hypo hisses. Those haunting blue eyes close. The body relaxes. The screams cease.

“He doesn’t know where he is, who we are,” Kirk says. “Mind meld with him, Spock. You can find out some information that way. Perhaps you can bring McCoy back.”

I look down at my hands. There are still traces of McCoy’s dried blood. I had not bothered to wash them. I rub them together, to obliterate the blood, to steel myself. The captain seems to often forget the danger of this act.

I attempt to warn him but I know it will be of no use: “Melding with McCoy in his current condition is dangerous for the both of us. There is no guarantee of success.”

I know Jim is waiting for me to begin. He will except no excuses. I step over to the biobed, place my hands on McCoy’s meld points. I close my eyes and attempt a light introductory meld.

Right on the surface, there is blackness. Odd.

It is a void. Deep. Dark. Lonely. The taste of a corpse. That is the only way I can describe it. Metallic, rotting.

A bottomless pit of despair.

I am immediately sucked down, in a rush, deeper than is safe at this point. I cannot get out. Down, down, down, further down. I am falling, spinning. Upside down. I do not like being upside down in this way.

I cannot breathe….

The corpse catches me. Holds me. It will not let me go. I struggle. I am nude. Let me go.

“Spock!” I feel hands grabbing me. Shaking me. Somebody slaps my face. “Snap out of it!”

I do. Snap out of it. But only just. I shudder. The corpse had closed its spindly, skeletal fingers around me, squeezing out my breath, touching my–- But I am safe now. I believe. I blink at the captain. I feel myself unravelling. I gather up all of my control, before I grimace, and speak: “I cannot…ascertain any further information. He has severe mental damage that I cannot undo. He is in emotional agony.”

*

Kirk has gone off duty for the night.

I sit in the sickbay ward, in a chair, next to McCoy’s limp, unconscious form on the biobed.

I cannot stop trembling. The memory of the corpse’s fingers….crushing me….

It is the cold air in here that makes me shiver so, that must be it. A corpse cannot move, cannot crush me, cannot do the things I am irrationally imagining it have done.

M’Benga’s boots appear front of me. I look up.

The doctor–- clad in the exact style of blue silkworm dupioni sickbay smock that McCoy was wearing when he had been abducted–- folds his arms. I imagine the scream of millions of tiny silkworms. Dying, in agony to create that silk fabric. M’Benga was trained on Vulcan. Does he know of the screams of the worms?

“Mr. Spock,” M’Benga says. “You know better than that.” He suddenly has a blanket, he places it upon on my shoulders. The warmth sinks into my body.

“The captain required that I–-”

“Mind melding with McCoy, with even a surface meld, in the condition he’s in…is foolhardy. He would have pulled you down with him. Is that what you want? Do you think that is what McCoy would want?”

“The captain–-”

“I know what the captain said. And you can tell him ‘no’.”

“I cannot,” I reply. “It is my duty to obey.”

“And what if McCoy had succeeded in trapping you within himself? Then what?”

“Then you would be dealing with two mentally ill patients at this precise moment.”

M’Benga snorts. He mutters a word in Vulcan that roughly translates to ‘dumb ass’ in Standard English. He storms off, away from me.

*

Oddly enough the mind meld seems to have been beneficial. To McCoy at least.

M’Benga brings McCoy back to consciousness. The man does not scream any longer but lays there in somewhat of a stupor.

Kirk stands at the foot of McCoy’s bed, looking on. “Should I…?”

“Perhaps now it would be alright,” I tell the captain.

“Hmmm. Don’t worry about what his attending physician might think about it,” M’Benga snaps. “You both go right on ahead, get into his face.”

“Doctor,” Kirk says. “I take full responsibility.” He approaches McCoy, pulls up a chair, sits down in it. “Bones?”

McCoy lolls his head over, looks at him.

“Bones? Do you remember me? It’s Jim. You’re safe. You’re on the Enterprise. You’re home.”

McCoy stares. He does not respond. Kirk reaches out to touch him. McCoy draws back as much as the restrains will allow. Kirk holds up his hands. “It’s alright, Bones. I won’t touch you.” McCoy does not seem to recognize him. “Spock.” The captain beckons me to come closer. “Look, Bones. It’s Spock. You know Spock, right?”

McCoy jerks his head over to look at me. He blinks repeatedly.

“That looks promising,” Kirk says. “Doesn’t it?”

“Leonard, do you know where you are?” I ask him.

McCoy furls his brow. He works his mouth, the new tongue within. He finally replies to me: “ _Nashaut_.”

The word is so very slurred. Perhaps I am mistaken, since the voice is garbled, but it sounds like–-

“He said: ‘Greetings’,” M’Benga translates.

“In what language?” Kirk asks.

“Vulcan, Captain.”

“Vulcan? That’s impossible. Bones doesn’t speak Vulcan.”

“Have you taught him any Vulcan?” M’Benga asks me.

“I have not.”

“Bones?” Kirk says. “Bones. Do you know who you are?”

McCoy stares back at Jim, still unrecognizing.

Dr. M’Benga is fluent in Vulcan. He asks McCoy: “ _Aye’thai aru ikei_?”

McCoy replies, again the word is slurred: “ _Nirsh_.”

“What does that mean?” Kirk says.

“I asked him does he know who he is? He said ‘no’,” M’Benga replies.

“Does he remember anything? Does he know where he is?”

M’Benga asks McCoy. McCoy says, “ _Nirsh_ ”.

“McCoy appears to be fluent in Vulcan,” I tell the captain.

“Why?”

“It can happen in patients with amnesia,” M’Benga says. “They often will resort to their primary language. However, as this case is obviously demonstrating, less commonly a patient will present fluency in a previously unfamiliar language. Granted the words he’s using, the dialect, is a little old. But many Vulcans still speak it, namely Spock.” M’Benga nods at me.

“Spock,” Kirk says. “Attempt the mind meld again.”

I hesitate. The shivers return. M’Benga clears his throat. I ignore the trembling and the livid acting chief medical officer as I rub my hands together and approach McCoy. The man jerks back, blue eyes widening as I hold up my hands. “Aren du ake?” I ask McCoy, requesting permission to touch him, engage in a mental link with him.

“ _Nirsh_ ,” McCoy replies with a whimper, a plead. “ _Nirsh. Nirsh. Nirsh_.”

“He is saying ‘no’,” I tell the captain. “He is not consenting to be touched, much less melded with. I cannot force this upon him. I refuse. Not after what he has endured.”

Kirk folds his arms. I had feared that he would order me, but he does not. “Alright. Maybe we should let him rest.” He moves to the biobed again. “McCoy.” Kirk turns to ask me: “How do you say his name in Vulcan?”

“ _Mah-koy_ or simply ‘McCoy’ is fine. At any rate, he does not know his name, that much is apparent.”

“How do you say ‘he’s safe now’? Tell him ‘it’s alright’. I want him to feel secure. No one will hurt him any longer.”

M’Benga translates it for the captain.

“ _Nemaiyo_ ,” McCoy replies.

“He says: ‘Thank you’,” I tell the captain.

_____________________

on to the next chapter


	4. Chapter 4

I take over the science/library scanner from Mr. Chekov, who moves from my station back to his own.

We are still en route to the closest planet. It will be as logical a place as any to begin a search, until McCoy can be properly questioned–and that may take some time.

*

Twelve point two three hours later, I stop by sickbay for an update on McCoy.

M’Benga informs me that upon further testing McCoy’s fugue state is most likely temporary. He tells me not to worry.

“I am a Vulcan, I do not experience that emotion,” I reply.

M’Benga smiles, unconvinced. “Sure, Mr. Spock.”

McCoy is asleep in the biobed now. The man looks somewhat better. His complexion has improved considerably. His face has plumped up a bit. Having been fed intravenously, he has lost his deathly pallor. He still has many contusions, some on his face, some on his arms. He looks peaceful now but still so very thin and fragile. He is still very bald, smooth. No beginnings of any hair growth.

*

I enter my quarters to sleep. I find I cannot stave off the exhaustion any longer. I strip off my uniform and don a sleeping gown.

I lay down on my bunk. I close my eyes.

McCoy is sitting at the table holding a pile of old Earth style photographs. I watch him sort through them. There are many. All of them paper. They are of McCoy as a small child, an older child, a teenager, then a young adult in his twenties.

McCoy looks up at me. ‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer.’ He laughs at his own joke. The sound is jarring, loud.

I open my eyes. I am alone in my quarters. It was a dream. That is all it was.

After a moment, I roll over onto my side, close my eyes again.

McCoy and I are walking through the grounds of a fairway. Earth. USA. Georgia State Fair. He likes to see the livestock contests. Blue ribbon for best lamb. There is a crowd of people. Families. Music. Announcements on the loud speaker. The smell of odd, fried confections. The grin on McCoy’s face says it all.

McCoy holds onto a string attached to a bright green balloon that he has just purchased from a vendor.

The balloon has a face. And pointed ears. And eyebrows. I notice it resembles me. Based on the man’s sense of humor, that is why he bought it.

‘Vulcan balloon,’ McCoy declares. He laughs and lets go of the string. The balloon is full of helium. It flies up and away. ‘Oh no!’ he cries out.

I try to grasp at it, pull it back down for McCoy, but it is too far away, out of my reach. There is only air.

I open my eyes again. I realize I have been reaching and grabbing in my dream.

I close my eyes.

McCoy and I are back at the fair. We hear a scream. It is emanating from the direction of the fairway. The carnival rides.

Someone has fallen off of the Ferris Wheel. Landing on the ground. There is a crowd gathered around.

McCoy and I run towards the accident scene, ready to render aid.

As we reach it, we realize the body is dead. It has already began decomposition. There is the buzzing of flies. The scent of death and sight of wriggling maggots.

A large black buzzard lands on the body. McCoy waves it away. ‘Get out of here! Get out of here! Get out of here!’

The buzzard squawks, suddenly starts to peck at me. I feel the sharpness of the beak.

I jolt awake. Alone in my bunk.

*

All thoughts of sleep abandoned, I exit my quarters, enter turbolift B and descend to deck 7.

I walk into the sickbay ward. McCoy is sitting up in bed, his arms laying limp on either side of him, a pillow stuffed behind his back.

Nurse Chapel appears grim as she takes a tray carrying a bowl of soup away.

M’Benga also seems to be on edge. The man is scrunching up his face from biting on his cheek.

“Is something the matter?” I ask the doctor.

“Yes. I took McCoy’s IV line out. I’ve cleared him for solid foods, but he will not let us feed him. He is combative. Extremely.”

I glance over at McCoy, who is looking at me. The man is the epitome of serenity at this moment. Not at all violent as the doctor has described. “Can he feed himself yet?” I ask M’Benga.

“He will not use his hands. Do you want to feed him? He might accept food from you.”

I nod in agreement. Nurse Chapel brings me the tray of soup. I take it from her, sitting down on the chair next to the biobed, balancing the tray on my knees. McCoy turns his head to look over at me.

I point to myself. “Spock.”

McCoy blinks.

“Spock,” I tell him again.

After a moment, he repeats my name, again it is slurred, but at least he has said it:  “ _Sphhhock_.”

I point at the soup, then to my mouth. In Vulcan I inform him that it is nourishment.

“ _E'tai'te_ ,” McCoy replies, informing me that he is aware.

“ _Me'etiha ha' mak'ee_ ," I reply, telling him that he must eat.  I ask him if he will allow me to feed him:  " _Kathe a'theca_?”

McCoy glances over at M’Benga and Nurse Chapel. “ _Ichy wai kah da ahe_.”

M’Benga huffs, an incredulous look upon his face. “‘Tell the humans to go away and you will eat’? But you're human,” he mutters. M’Benga tells McCoy in Vulcan: “ _T'ahthe jhuman.” (But you yourself are human.)_

“ _Nirsh_ ,” McCoy says, in the negative.  

" _Nirsh_?   _T'ahthe jhuman_ ," M'Benga says again.

" _Nirsh.  Nirsh_ ," McCoy says.

M’Benga opens his mouth to protest again before I stop the man with an outstretched hand. “ _Q'etiha ah ve_?” I ask McCoy. (what are you?)

“ _Ikay nirsh men-uvah_.” (That I will not tell you.)

“ _A'theike_?"  (Why not?)

“ _Nirsh pasar-uk_ ,” McCoy replies. (I do not know.)

“ _Weekva ah ve_?"  (Who are you?”)

“ _Mah-Koy_ … _un vatche'th vasa jhuman-ka.  T'ahi ch'eva wok lie'the.  Th'emi ah av e, Mah-Koy_."   (The name 'Mah-Koy' you told the Human.  That is what you referred to this body as. The name 'Mah-Koy' is attached to this body, so you say.)

M’Benga tilts his head at that.  " _Lithe va ke, Mah-Koy_?" he says.  

" _Aht'thema' kai ha mehta_ ," I say to M'Benga.  

“ _Ah ve make, Q'etiha Mah-Koy_?" I ask.  (Do you know who and what Mah-Koy is?)

“ _Nirsh._ ”

“ _Ah te make, Q'eitha James Kirk?_ "  (Do you know who and what James Kirk is?”)

“ _Nirsh_.”

" _Ah te make, M'Benga_?" (Do you know who this man, Dr. M'Benga, is?)

McCoy turns and looks at the doctor.  "Nirsh."

“ _Ah te make, Scpock_?"  (Do you know who I am?)

“ _Tua ve Spock_.” (I know you are Spock.)

I glance over at M’Benga who smiles at that.

" _Ah maka vua, le Spock-kam_?" M'benga asks McCoy. (Do you know who Spock is to you?) 

“ _Nirsh_.”

M’Benga’s smile evaporates.

" _Eia vua_ ," I say to M'Benga. (It is alright.)  “Ah te vua q'eite?"  I ask McCoy.  (Do you know where you are?)

“ _Nirsh_.”

“ _Da athe ka va a Enterprise, Starship.  Kai va atthe Enterprise_?"  (You are on board the Starship Enterprise. Do you know what the Enterprise is?)

“ _Nirsh_.”

I look back at M’Benga who is holding his hand to his mouth. " _Maka q'ahea, Dok'tor.  Ava me'the ath_."  (If you will leave us alone, Doctor. I will feed him.)

M’Benga nods and switches back to Standard. “Let’s go, Nurse Chapel.”

Once they are gone, I dip the spoon into the bowl. McCoy is looking at me again. I hold the spoon to his mouth. “ _Thiesh_.” (Open your mouth.)

McCoy shakes his head.

“ _Thiesh_ ,” I say again, a bit more forcefully.

He finally opens. I put the spoon into his mouth. He closes his teeth on the spoon, clamping down so hard that I cannot withdraw it.

“ _HAh key_ ,” I command. (Let go.)

He does. He chokes, the soup spills from his mouth.

I decide to explain the procedure to him speaking in Vulcan: “You must allow me to spoon the nourishment into your mouth, then you close your mouth and swallow the food. Do you know how to swallow food?” I point to my throat. “Can you do it?”

McCoy does not seem to understand. “You show me,” he finally says, in Vulcan.

I dip the spoon into the soup, taking only the broth, as it is chicken soup. McCoy watches as I spoon the liquid into my own mouth. I pull out the spoon, McCoy looks at the empty spoon. I direct his attention to myself swallowing. “T'ehe?”

“Na,” he says, which is ‘yes’.

“Now let me put the spoon into your mouth.”

I feed him, until the soup is gone.

M’Benga must have been watching on the monitor in his office because he re-enters as soon as the soup is finished. “Did you like your soup?” M’Benga asks McCoy, in Vulcan.

“Nirsh,” McCoy says.

“Why not? Chicken soup is Dr. McCoy’s favorite. Jewish penicillin as you always call it.”

“Moe nirsh ah oach-heka.” (It is not my favorite.)

“What is your favorite food?”

“Humans,” McCoy replies.

“Human food?” M’Benga says. “Well, that about narrows it down.” He chuckles. “Well, Dr. McCoy, next time we’ll try to find something else on the menu to your liking. At least you ate the soup for starters.”

“Human food?” I ask McCoy.

McCoy turns his head to me and smirks. That sends a chill down my spine, for reasons that I cannot explain.

__________________  
on to the next chapter...


End file.
